The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on July 19, 1893 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Algona, Iowa
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Wednesday, July 19, 1893
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MOlNlS,ALCK)NA M IOWA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 19,1893, BT HUGH COTTWAT, Catted Book" JRa JKfc CHAPTER XXVI. A WORD IN SEASON. After one or two unsuccessful attempts Carruthers found Mrs. John Eawlings in stalled behind the family counter at No. 142 Gray Street She was very hard at work- no doubt endeavoring to make up for her husband's repeated absences. In her hands she held what appeared like a long salmon- colored two inch rope, which, by a dexterous twist of the wrist, or some manipulation only known to the initiated, she was rapidly transforming into ornamental and symmet . rical festoons of those luscious articles of diet, sausages. Upon learning that Garni- thers wished to speak to her in private she wiped her hands on a cloth, and lifting up a flap, or species of drawbridge, in tho counter, begged he would step through and follow her up stairs. He did so, and was shown into what Mrs. Rawlings called tlw parlor; a room papered with a startling paper, carpeted with a dazzling carpet; furnished with imitation walnut chairs and couch upholstered in the brightest blue tapestry; the mantelpiece bearing a mirror in a burnished gilt frame, and, among other gay ornaments, a huge pair of those glass vases with suspended prisms known as lustres; the fire glowed very brightly, anil was kept in order by a fender.and fliv-lrons of flashing steel. It was, in fact, a room which appeared to open its eyes and glare at you as you entered. A man even more anxious and preoccupied than ^rank was could not. fall to be struck with the general effect. It would have been positively ungracious not to have noticed it. "What a bright room I" he said. "It is a bright room," said Mrs. Rawlings in a gratified way. "You see, sir, wo ofter kill as many as thirty pigs before breakfast." This seemed a digression without bearing upon the main subject. "Poor things I" said Frank, without making it clear whether he referred to the pigs or their slayers. "At first, •'When I married llawlings, found it a melancholy business; so I made up my mind to have everything away from the factory bright and cheerful.' "You have succeeded here," said Frank, as he took the azure covered chair offered him. "I hope so. You see, sir," continued Mrs. Rawlings, "every business has its drawbacks as well as its advantages. Many don't like the pork business, but it's a nice clean business—there's no dust about it llk'e there is about baking. I hate dust of any sort." At another time Carruthers might have been amused and have tried to draw tills woman out, but lie was now only anxious to hear about Beatrice so he commenced his inquisition. Yes; Mrs. Eawlings had been at Blacktown. She hail stayed at the "Cat and Compasses." She, or rather lier husband had believed a little boy to be their missing son. A young lady had called upon her one morning. She gave'no name, but she was a tall young lady; very handsome; and with grey eyes; beautifully dressed; in fact quite a young lady. Yes, poor thing 1 quite a lady. Would Mrs. Rawllngs tell lier visitor what had been said or done at that interview? Oh, no—never. The good woman shut her eyes, compressed her lips, and shook her head elowly and solemnly. The combined effects of these actions being meant to show that Beatrice's communication was for ever locked up in the sacred respository of her heart. • Mrs. Kawlings really meant to keep Beatrice's secret, and doubtless had no pressure been applied she would have kept it loyally. But unluckily she was one of those who have to struggle to retain a secret, not only its main body but little corners which would slip out unawnivs. In trying to guard Beatrice's secret from her visitor's renewed questions, she was like one trying to pack a feather bed into a traveling trunk; as one part was pushed down another part rose up. The words "poor thing!" applied to Beatrice had already raised Frank's curiosity to the highest pitch, and made him believe that ,'Jie present inquiry was not collateral. • Was he justilied in striving to learn what Beatrice wished hid? He thought so. He loved her with a pure, unselfish love; so unselfish that he was not endeavoring to find the cause of her flight for his own ends, but In order to bo able to give lier aid if she required it. Yes, tho man who loved her had a right to try ami learn all about the woman whom he believed loved him. Besides, had Beatrice in any way bound this woman to secrecy? He could scarcely believe it. He fancied that Mrs. -Rowlings, as some people will, was making a mystery of nothing. Beatrice may have given her money to withdraw the absurd claim, and she was ashamed to confess tho fact. "Look here," said Carruthers. "I must and will know what took place between you and the lady. I warn you tiiat by concealment you may do her the greatest wrong. You cannot harm her by telling the truth." Again Mrs. Rawlings shut her eyes and shook her head. Again Frank pressed her, attain and again. She still kept the secret, but ever and anon, by means of somo unguarded expression, let a corner slip out. So much so that Frank fully realized the fact that Beatrice was driven to seek that interview by some great stress, some grievous need. Ho began to fancy that in spite of her denial in knowledge even of lier name, Mrs. Rawlings might be able to tell all about the flight. "Can. you tell me where-to find her?" ho asked. "I warn you if you withhold lier address from me you may do her a wrong which may never bo repaired." He spoko earnestly and impressively, fixing his eyes upon tlw woman as ho spoke. He wished to learn from her looks whether she know the address or not. A midden inspiration seized Mrs. Rawlings. Inspiration may come to a purveyor as well as to a pout. This young man, this eager young fellow, was the cause of all the shame and mischief—what secret was there to keep from him? He might be right; incalculable harm might follow her silence. "You want to find lier?" she askuil, "You don't know where sho is?" "I want to find hor, I shall never rest until I find her." His manner told Mrs, Kaw- lings that her inspiration was correct. She rose and spoke with real emotion. , "Yes, sir," shu said, "go and find her. Go and do what is right. If you are tho man, I think your conscience will tell yon what to do. Oh, sir, make what amends you can while there is time. Life is uncertain. It is things of this sort which haunt a man 011 his death-bed" Tho look of surprise which at lirst sat on Frank's face turned to one of something like horror. "Go on," ho said hoarsely. : "Perhaps, I am wronging you," went on the woman. "Perhaps you did not know all. She saiil tho child was born in secrecy. Perhaps you never knew it. But go to hor now, sir, and make what amends you can. It's not for mo to speak, but what can a gentleman want for his wife wore tUaft a beautiful, proud-looking young lady like this, Pear, dear! what she must have UuHerecL popr thing." ... ._ ' Oarruthers was ghastly. His hands gfnsj, ed the table for support Mrs. Rawlinss glanced at him and felt that her impromj>:i. oration was doing its work. "There, don't take on so," she said kindly. "There maybe excuses for you. Old people oughtn't to judge the young too severely." "Tell me all she said, every word," gasped Carrtithers. He had forced the woman to give him this bitter cup, and he meant to dr-'ln it to the dregs. "Oh, poor dear! she told me all. Told me how she had been forced to make her secre' known by my husband's claiming the child. My heart bled for her. She told me how 110 one knew about tho buby; how she shouli have to leftntribe revealed unless I helped her. She told me how she had longed for her child, and somehow, I don't know how, managed to get it to live with lier or near her. Oh, it's such a pretty boy I Such a pr^v boy, sir." "Where can 1 find her?" asked Carruthers. Not that he now hoped to learn. "Where? I suppose somewhere near the child, down at Blacktown. You know the lady's name. I don't. But you'll do what's right, won't you, sir?" "Yes," said Frank. "I will do what Is right. Thank you. Uood-niorning." He loft the room, and departed by the way he hail come. Mrs. Riuvlings returned to her Interesting occupations. She knew the name neither oC linr visitor vmr of HIP lady whom she had seen at Blacktown, but to this day when she recalls the look of what she believed to be remorse on the young man's face, she Is happy in the thought thai it nviy be a few heart-felt and appropriate words, though only spoken by a humble woman like herself, helped on the great light of good against evil, righted a wrong, and made a sister woman happier. May such amis- take occur to many of us. It causes consolation. A worthy soul Mrs. Rawlings. Nevothe- less, we will now bid her adieu, and hope that the business in Gray Street continues to flourish. But Frank Carruthers I Poor Frank whose researches had led him into such straits. Who had learnt tho terribluhalf truth which by a paradox is often greater than tho whole. Carruthws walked ami walked—out of Gray's Road—on and on—without heeding whither. Such grief us ho felt to-day, was a new experience in n man's life. When somo throe months ago Beatrice told him she could not love him, the shock as wo know was great, but In spite of it Beatrice was still the Beatrice of his dream. Then there was hope; there is always hope in such oases. But now none! Not a vestige I He laughed bitterly as he thought of the hours he had spent endeavoring to find tin cause of .what hn had called Beatrice's complaint—of her general apathy and Indifference to the world at large. Now lie had got at tho very germ of the disease. No wonder sho was cold and reserved with such a secret to carry—such a dread overhanging her. Poor girl! Poor girl 1 lie could see how the boy's coming to Hazlewood House had been arranged. Through Mrs. Miller, of course. And by his new light he was able to explain a discrepancy which had always troubled him. On the night when she bade him hope and wait, the nurse had told him that jlaitrlcc had saved her years ago fr«in starvation, whereas, Horace had told htm. Hint until shu came to the house, she was a sir.iuger to them all. He had not thought it worth while to pursue the inquiry. She, this strangely-mannered woman, had made him promise to wait. Wait for what? There was nothing to w.iit for. Even if he, as he scornfully told himself he could.should forget his manhood and bo willing to take B"itrice as his wife even now, he knew that a barrier, never to be climbed, would be raised by her. H;> did not wrong lier in this. Ho knew that for all that had befallen she was mourning in mental sackcloth and ashes. He had no blame to give her, no stone to cast. She had not tried to win his love. She had not accepted that love when offered. Too well he knew why. Yet lie knew also that shu loved him—loved him but would never be his. The thought drove him half mad. No friend of Carruthers's would have known him, as, with heavy brows and bent head, he walked through those quiet streets of suburban London. But why the flight? No new dread, no new danger could have threatened her. Did she after all fly because lie was coming to Hazlewood House? Did she fear that her resolution must give way, and with one breath she must avow her love, and with the next tell her lover that love could not be between thorn? No. A word from her would have stayed his coming. She had even as good as asked him to come. She was not flying from him. Then the thought of that man who was see > ing her came to his mind. Ho shuddered and bit his lips; he knew not why. But his lirst thought was to trace this unknown man and hear why ho wanted Beatrice. Ills mood changed. lie would not seek him. He had no more to learn. After what ho had this morning heard, all inquiries, all information, could but tend to make him more miserable. There was nothing now left for him in tho world but sheer hard work. Work, work, the greatest blessing ever given to man. So he walked on and on, almost crying in his anguish, almost raving at iiis utter helplessness to mend matters. But^all tho while, do what he could to tear his idol out of her shrine, thinking of her as the calm, fair, stately girl lie had known and loved, the one of all the world against whom slander should raise no voice. Before his aimless walk was ended his mood had grown soft and pitying. Anger had simply faded away. All he could now think of was Beatrice and her sorrow. All lie asked was to be able to see her and tell lier there was one who would ever be as a brother to her. The wild resolve that he would now acquiesce in her disappearance as calmly as did her uncles disappeared. He would find her. He would go to her, take lier hand, tell her the secret was his, counsel lier, and if it wero possible stand between tier and what she had to bear. But he knew now, or thought he know, tho utmost that life hail to give him, and lie saw in it a sorry substitute for what it had seemed to promise only a few days ago. Blame her! Why should he blame her? How had she wronged him? CHAPTER XXVIL, A. HELPING HAND. To make up one's mind; to vow to find a young woman who has disappeared without oaving a truce, is one thing 1 —to find her is mother. The world is a place of conskler- ible size, and chance meetings aro not so common as the confiding novel reader is asked to believe. Such was at least the experience of two men, who, from different mo-. ;ives, were equally anxious to find the fugitive. The lirst Maurice liervey, tho second •Vault Carruthers. liervey, who, having paid a second visit o Oakbury, had in somo way managed to '.earn that Beatrice,tho boy and the nurse had ;ono to London, bade a hasty adieu to Black- :o\vn and returned to the capital. The more 10 studied the situation, the more apparent tbecamo that, to use his own words, he was irV cleft stick. So Ions' as Beatrice could tJ\ * conceal her whereabouts from him, so lonjc .vcas he utterly helpless. He could, ot course, compass a certain amount of revenge but the cost would be too terrific. However sweet a thing may be, it may be bought too dearly. He could walk boldly up to Sir Maingay Clauson and proclaim himself his son-in-law. He could go to these Talberts and show them that he married their niece when she was little more than a school-girl. But what good would this do? His bolt would be shot^ and his quiver li >ld no other. It might, bring down Beatrice but not her money. He would have to deal with men of the world instead ot a woman over whom lie held the terror of exposure. He had one article to sell, silence. There was one customer for it, his wife. With her he could trade to advantage, but the moment ho b.-nkc luck for another market his commodity became all but valueless. Again, there was that cursed clause in old Gilbert's will, liervey could easily prove liat Beatrice was his wife, but in doing so .ie also proved that she had married, when under age, without her trustees' consent,and '.he said trustees could do almost exactly as they liked with he.- fortune. Probably they would throw him two hundred a year so long as he kept out of the way. What was two hundred a year when we know that had he not insisted on bringing some one's head down to the dust, ho might have had ten times the amount? Why had he not taken the money and foregone his revenge? In fact, Beatrice's flight, although not effected for strategical reasons, was a masterpiece; a move which bound her enemy hand and foot. Savagely ho looked forward to the time when circumstances would force him to take the best offer made him. Well he knew that the moment Beatrice nerved herself to reveal the truth to her friends, the moment she elected to confess her girlish folly, and face what shame and blame might be due to her, every shred of power he held would be gone. It, was, therefore, imperative he should find Beatrice and re-open negotiations upon a basis more favorable tr her. Reflection and the risk he now ran ot losing everything made him inclined to lower his demands. Ik- would take ilftcer hundred, even a half of his wife's income, and if she wished it, would enter into a regular deed of judicial separation. He would be silent so long as the money was paid 01 so long as it paid him better to be silent. What if he gave out that he was dead and waited until she had married again'.' Then his sway would be supreme. .But to gain this advantage he must lie silent, it might be for years, and in the meantime must somehow make a living. Perhaps, after her former experience, she would not marry again. Any way the state of his exchequer put a veto on the waiting scheme. He expected no unextorted help from her. He looked for no mercy. He had showed none. He had blasted her life; robbed hei years of early womanhood of their sweetness; he had traded on the romance which lies in the heart Of nvnrv vnnnir o-li-l (.IIPI for mercenary purposes, had turned and crushed It out. He had shown her, nay, in brutal words, told lier that he had married her to raise money in order to save himself from the penalty due to his crime. He well knew what lie had done, and knowing this he had not even ventured at attempting to cajole her when they measured strength at Black town. Had it been needed the stern set of her features—the scorn of her manner would have told him that he had no mercy to expect, that it was a duel between the two. He must find her! As the months went on the necessity of finding her became more and more obvious. He had, after the manner of a gambler, who feels that any hour may bring the great stroke of luck, lived luxuriously. His money had by now so diminished that he saw lie must shortly do one of three things, find Beatrice, earn money, or starve. The first, the most desirable course in every way, seemed impossible. He had made, both in person and vicariously, such inquiries at Sir Maingay's house as could be made without exciting comment and suspicion. He had even been down once more to Oakbury, seen the Talberts, but had learnt nothing to his advantage. So course number one could not be counted upon to meet the emergency. Course number three, if the simplest, was the most unpleasant, so he was constrained to adopt number two; at least, provisionally. Before his disgrace liervey had occasionally done some work for illustrated periodicals. As this branch of his late profession seemed to offer him the best chance of supplying his needs, lie called upon two or three people whom he had known in former days, and who, moreover, knew w)iat had caused Ill's protracted absence, lie simply said ho was anxious to redeem the past and begged for a helping hand. Selfish as the world is supposed to be there are many willing to help a fallen man on to his legs. Hervey received one or two promises which might or might not lead to remunerative work. The months passed very dismally and drearily for the second seeker, Frank Carruthers. He knew not where to turn, where to look for Beatrice. However, ha was better off than Hervey, for he had direct intelligence from her. Once a month she had written to lier uncles, but her letters gave no clue that could be followed. They bore no address; they were posted in London; they mentioned noplaces; not even a country. She said she was living an exceedingly quiet, calm life. She longed to see dear old Oakbury again, and wondered if it would ever bo her lot to do so. In each letter she regretted the necessity for the step she had taken and hoped that if over her uncles knew her true reason for it they would forgive her. She trusted, nevertheless, that they would never learn it. The only hints at locality in any one of her letters were that she mentioned that the weather was bitterly cold, and also that sjie spent much time studying art; was, indeed, learning to paint in oils. The letters Herbert, who felt sympathy for his cousin, sent on to Frank, and Frank perused them again and again, endeavoring by the light tie had gained to read between the lines. And the more lie read the more mystified lie became. If Mrs. Kawlings' tale was true, there was something which Herbert and Horace never could, never would forgive; yet Beatrice wrote as if forgiveness was not an impossibility. Moreover, it struck Frank that her words expressed a doubt as to whether her uncles had learnt the reason for her flight. When should ho find her? When should he learn the whole truth? He searched lier letters in vain for his own name, for any message to him. The omission troubled him, not because he thought himself forgotten, but because it showed him that Beatrice felt there was a fate, which nothing could overcome, keeping thorn apart. So lier letters gave him no hope. Had he been an idle man Frank Carruthers could never have borne those months of suspense. BuS he was hard, very hard at work on a second book. Believe me a man does not write his worst when his heart is sad. A deficiency of the gastric juice or a superabandaiice of litliic acid may ruin a man's work, but not necessarily grief. Toothache may prove fatal to inspiration, but heartache need not;. So pending the appear- awce of his first book, which had tor some reason been delayed, Fran* \vas busy with a successor. About that first book, a satirical, semipo- HMcal novel, which, by the by, made a great hit, Mr. Carruthers, like all new Writers, was as nervous and fidgety as a young husband whose beloved wife is for the first time about to increase the population. One day It struck him that the great work would be more taking if adorned with illustrations. He mentioned his idea to the publishers, who quite agreed with him, only adding that six full page illustrations would cost so many pounds, an expense they did not feel justified in incurring. But If Mr. Carruthers liked to bear the cost, well and good. Frank, who had money to spare, said he would see for how much he could get them done. He called upon a friend, a Mr. Field, who knew all about such matters, and inquired where he could find hands competent yet not too costly. And this friend happened to be one of those from whom Maurice Hervey had begged a helping hand. So it will be seen that the hereinafter mentioned meeting between Carruthers and Hervey was, like all so-called chaiice meetings, when traced back to its cause, quite a natural sequence. Indeed it is hard to see how things could have happened otherwise. "There, a fellow called on me a day or two ago," said Mr. Field, "a fellow who's down on his luck now. He might suit you." "Can you recommend him? What is ills name?" "I don't know that I can recommend him, but you may give aim a trial. He calls himself Henry Morris. He's down on his luck as 1 said." "Write him a line and ask him to call on mo," said Carruthers, who liked to help men down on their luck. "Is ho clever?" "He's been idle BO long I can't say. Look here, Carruthers, make him do the drawings on approval; and if 1 were you I wouldn't give any money on account." "Send him to me and I'll tal!c to him." Carruthers was just leaving the room when his friend called him back. "I say, Carruthers, I'd better tell yon, then ymi can't say 1 diilii't. T.n.s cluip ius bouu in quod five years for forgery. Ills name's Maurice Hervey. I suppose he's out now on ticket of leave. He tells me he means to run straight for the future. Now you know all about it and can wloaso LORD BEACONSFIEL,D'S CHARACTER. Lady Mildred Boyulou socks to demonstrate that there really is ".something in." graphology. Mr. Longma.ii submitted to her some specimens - of tlic writing of famous men and from those letters sho lias delineated their character, giving rea.sous for the faith that is iu her. That the test might be a real one the signatures and addresses of. the letters were concealed from Iiivdy Mildred. In somo cases she guessed who the writer was; in others she did iuot. This is what she says of Lord Benconsfield after seeing a letter from him to his publisher— and not guessing of whom she was speaking: "The writing of a reliued, cultivated, well-bred man of the world, who possesses much savoir-faire, tact and, I should say, very good manners His taste Is good; he likes beauty in (.very form; is accustomed to ease, luxury and comfort; but lie has muoh intellectual 'pnpaolty, literary taste, sense ot- humor, vivid imagination, with strong individuality, though perhaps not quite reaching originality. He is very affectionate, kind-hearted and benevolent, rather impressionable and his will is not strong, except iin sucli things as interest him, but he is more accustomed to rule than to obey. He has much 'class' or family pride, but it is neither stiff nor arrogant. Has! taste for music and art. Itathei of an indolent nature. A very pleas* ant, amusing companion!, eloquent and talkative. He has sequence of ideas and deductive judgment; a clear head. Is something of a scholar; has a leaning toward the classics and poetry, though he possesses also much practical common sense; Is extravagant and fond of popularity and possibly has somo vaiiltiy (but this may show itself more In the signa.ture, which I have not soon). He Is igooid-tlompered on the whole, very self-possessed, and plucky. Can be sarcastic and has much shrewdness and a good memory. Ijikc.s effect, has gren.t tenacity of purpose." DIVORCE IM.WS. Married Couples Experiment with Marriage In a Disgraceful Manner. Once divorce laws are enacted, married couples take advantage of them who twouldl never have thought or dreamed' of separating, and would have patched up their quarrels and differences if there had not been such • an easy way out of the matrimonial bond. No man would' have ever thought, unless the law favored a loose way out of wedlock, to write: "Mary, if you love me, or ever did love me, you will apply for a divorce, as there is another woman whom I could love," As the scope of the law Is little by little enlarged!, an Increasing number seek and obtain divorces, and after awhile It becomes a perfectly respectable thing to contract what might be called experimental marriages. In the west, especially, society receives back divorces. The palaces of the well-to-do are ope*u to them. Churches do not cast them out, andi ministers welcome them at their communion tables. They may occupy positions of trust and honor, two or three divorces to then 1 credit side notwithstanding. And we are told) that such sights have no in- Jueuce on the growing generation of joys and girls. This is not true. Teach the rising generation by object lessons, at an age when impressions are deep and 1 lasting, 12iat men and women may, wthout losing caste, divorce at pleasure, and the notion of the sanctity of the family life is undermined.— ?rof. S. J. Brun, in North American Review. A VENDETTE. Paolo Savcrinl's widow lived wltii her, only son in a small and humble house on the ramparts of Bonifacio. The town had been built on the spur of a mountain, and hung in places far above the sea, overlooking the narrows, j bristling with clifts, on the lower side, almost entirely surrounding it, a line of cliffs Which resembled a gigantic corridor, did sot-vice as«a harbor, nnd led up to the first houses of the (town after a. long, circuitous route between two straight walls. This hurl>or was used by the little Italian and Sardinian fishing crafts, and by the old panting strainer which brought the malls from Ajaocto. . The white mountain side was thick with houses, even neater than tlmit. of the widow. They looked like the nests of savnyo birds perched on lidgh, overlooking the dangerous delile (that no boats dared approach. The wind blows incessantly there, furiously lush-' Ing the soa. and the bare coast. The billows rush into tho narrow strait and ravage its shores. Tracks of white foam, pierced by tho dark spote of tho lnu.umciti.blc rocks which i-tse nlxm> tiho waves, look like- linen shreds floating and dancing on tho surface of the water. i Tho widow .Savcrinl's house was situated on the edge of tho clilV, its tihroe small windows facing the wild and desolate horizon. She lived it here all alone with her son Antonio and lier dog Somlllanto, a, largo thin animal with long shaggy hair, not unlike a shepherd's dog. Tho young man used it when limiting. . One evening, in a broil, Antonio Save- rinl was stubbed to death by Nicolas Ravolatl, who on the same night eseap- ed to the Sardinian aide. When the old mother behold the corpse of her son, which passers-by carried to hor door, she uttered no cry, but gazed at it without a twitch of tho muscles of her face. Then, laying her shriveled hand on he dead body of hor child, she vowed to avenge his murder. She sent them all away, and locked herself up with the corspe and the dog, who howled Incessantly as it lay by the foot of the bed its head turned upon few bundles of straw. She took some old clothes, loft by her husband, and stuffed them with straw In imitation of a human body. The dog regarded the straw man with surprise, and though suffering pangs of hunger remained quiet for a while. These strange preparations all being- completed, tho old woman went to a butcher's shop nnd bought a long blood pudding. This she fried over a fire that sho built in the yard near the barrel to which the dog waa chained. Semlllante, almost wild, bounded forward and foamed at the mouth as she beheld the frying sausage, the fumes of which filled her nostrils. With one bound, the animal clutched the throat of the manikin, and, with hor paws resting on Its shoulders, she began the work of destruction. The ravenous brute fell back with a piece of the sausage in her maw, only to return again to the attack, each" time burying her fangs in the fastenings and tea.ring tho nock into shreds. The old woman looked up in silence, hor eyes burning with excitement. AVlnm tho sausage was eatort—the lesson concluded—sho ohahied hor dog again, starved it for another two days, and resorted to the same strange pastime. For three mouths she trained the animal to this kind of sport—to this savage means of procuring food. It was no loinger necessary to chain the brute; a simple gesture sufficed to sot it upon the man of straw. She at last taught the dog to attack tho manikin even without putting the. moat around his nock, and as a reward for the trick gave it a smoking sausage afterward. As BOOH as Semlllante would catch sight of the straw man, she Avould tremble and turn hor eyes upon hep mistress, who with blssl/ng volco and linger held aloft, would cry "Go." ****** When Mather Sovuriui thought the proper time had come, she went to church onu Sunday morning, nnd with elastic fervor' confessed and partook of communion. Then, disguised in man's clothes, and looking like a de- cropifl tramp, she wont away, accompanied by her dog, and a Sa,rdiulan fisherman, rowed hor across the straits. In * linen bag sho carried a large, piece of sausage, Semillante had b6en When they reached Longosardo, she repaired to a baker's shop and made s to t)ho whereabouts of Ravolatl. He hadl resumed stanch the wound, the waistcoat and •"- — tmdo of cai-pentep, and was at Hie. troiiwro. n« w^ll MS hi. ft,™ n.,,1 W01 ' k n11 Ul ° Ila iu Ule lvai ' end °* h[9 Lying flat on Ms back, with his waistcoat pierced and torn at tho breast, the young man seemed to be asleep. Blood stained the shirt torn open to the trousers, as well as his faco and hands. Blood dots hung hi his beard and m his hair. ' l ,nP' ' "° , , ., vomnn pushed the door open The old mother Down to talk into !lnd cried illo " d "?oy, Nicholas!" the deafened ears; and when it heard .. ah1 ° ™ n tlulu( * d aiwund. [Lashing lier voice tho clog stopped barking. J' 10 dog ' the w>mnn yelled: "Go! Go! "Never mind. Thou shalt be avong-1 loiU> 'I'" 1 to P Ioc ™!' od, my babe, my boy, my poor child! ilie bl ' ll(o B P 1%11U K Won the unsus. Sleep; sleep on; 'thou shalt be avenged I> L1 ° tm K " lllu and seized him by the -dost thou hear! Thy mother prom- 1hrol:vt - Her t:lu ' ew ' Ws ams ' wound iscs, and she has always kept her word; tho do »' clutched it frantically and fell thou kuowest It well" , w "' 1 "• *° ^ ue fl ool V For a moment he She bont over him' and pressed hor wtthed in its deadly embrace, beating cold lips to his dead ones. Semtllanto llis foot in a sony against the stoaes. resumed her moan—a terrible, heart.- At lnst lle S f6vr motionless, while rending moan. They remained together ', Semlllante buried her fangs In his beside the corpse until morning, mother neck !md tore it to shreds. Two of and dog. j Havolati's neighbors afterward re. On the following day Antonio. Save- menibored that when sitting in the rlnt was buried, and the murder was doorways of their houses that day they soon forgotten by the good people of had noticed an old man coining from Uonll'acio. ' Nicholas" house—aw old man nccora. ****** paniod by a black dog, which fed /'t it Tho murdered man had left behind ran on a piece of browned meat \fc-oh him neither brother nor near kinsmen.' the old man held in his hand. I Nobody thought to avenge his death;! Iu'the evening the old womadV: e- only the old mother remembered. She turned home, and that night i! , ie wretched, from morning until night, a! slept puieofully once more.—TrauU i> little white spot on the banks of the, ed from the French' of Guv do A u- atlier side of the straits. It is a Sav-1 passant by Emily S. Howard, dluian village, called Longosnrdo, audj has long been a refuge for Corsioau bandits who find themselves closely! pursued. They inhabit the hamlet al-! Fishermen Make an Unexpected and most exclusively, which Is in plain view | Unusual Hauid. i A. WHALE IN THEIR NETS. of their native land, awaiting only the moment when they can safely return. volatl had fled to rthls v llage. Day after day she sat by the window and brooded over the vendetta. What .... , , ,, , ,,„„,,.! Capt. Lorenzo Thompson, of the .the old mother knew that Nicolas Ha- Sc i 100 uer Eliza Allen, brought in yes- volatl had fled h ll tcrd t , la t oatoh o£ ^ s ^ 5000 ds , n Iigh Tb ^ ^^ a ,„ sch(X)1 of ]Uuck J el off could she do, without assistance hiflrm Ham ^ and bad ^ { t and near the end of her days? But she Suddol / y lt wo lt out of glght and ful1 ° f something,' says the Bbfore they go, nonuch me to The Indians at Odanah were paid on 5. Of the money a large amount of it was spent in Ashland for the necessities of life. For the first time in many, years every one of them went »ome sober and with money jngllng in heir .pockets. They bought a large amount of farming implements .themselves, among which was a new mow* lug machine. wat Yet what coin she do? Sho lay ' f, oula awake a,t nigh without peace or rest, 1 "'^ W ^ '" a VOStt ° n f c <f sldcrab e obstinately bent on the thought of re- f mgel> ' tor *? e wli , nl °' 'f 1 *? 1Bt ™«« 1 ? veuye. The dog crouched at her feet, | to Tf , to f he « urfiloe ° " blow ' f lifting its head now and then to utter mos " , t°°kthe. dory and the mm in ti low moan. Since her master's death' fc vnAo ^ Had they gone over the side she often moaned and howled, appar-' !t would lmve been deftth to ^ em ' £or ently inconsolable for the loss. I ttlQ . whale was making frantic efforts One night, when Semillante was in- fol< nfe > and was mnd ever y bit dulging as usual in her plaintive howl, I Aftei ' a wllile tiie uulted efforts ot a wild ferocious thought flashed a11 onboard overcame the fighting and through tho old woman's brain. She half-maddened Vhale, and they suc- broode over it until daylight, then at ceeded in keeping it from the air long curly dawn rose to visit the church ' enough to kill It. • Kneeing on the cold stones before the ' Had tho whale ojice managed to get altar, the woman implored God to help to the surface and clear itself from hor, to sustain her, and to give to hor \ the net there would have been a hard poor worn-out frame the strength she fight then and there, for, while any- needed to avenge her sou. j thing but full grown only about 20 feet On her return from these strange long and weighing perhaps ai trifle devotions she went into the yard. ' over 5,000 pounds it would have mode There sho kept an .old broken barrel, ' It hot for the men in the dory, If not in which the winter gathered from a ', for tho rest. Having killed the whale rain-spout. Sho turned it over, emptied they discovered that the school ot it, fastened it rto the ground with stakes mackerel had disappeared, aiad so they an stones, and chained Semillante to ' made sail for home with the whale, it. With lier eyes fixed upon tho Sar- diulnu coast, the woman returned indoors and paced incessantly up and down the room. Tho dog barked all day and all night, In the morning the old woman gave it somo water in a pan, but not a morsel of food. Another day went by. Semil- their broken net and what few fish thoy had. The whale has been seen byi many old fishermen, who pronounce it the best specimen of a fln back ever captured in these waters. David Allen has brought suit against Warehouse and Builders' Supply Junto, weak from hunger, slept. The company, of West Superior, for $5,000 second morning lier eyes were lustrous, I dnmnBe8 foi . tlle aossr of a hand while In ho i ril '.• *' her hair bristled, and she pulled at her ^^ ( chain with all her might. But the old woman refrained from The work of surveying" the route o| the proposed railway between feeding tho dog, which growing furious now, barked hoarsely. Another night 'sha and Oconomowoc "will begin. ne$t pa&sod by. week, it ip claimed that ample capital On the third morning Mother ~ ' '• ' -..<-....•.» ...... third morning. Mother SayerUn, b,a§ beep secured tft pjfck,e tfee }>:roJej| to ft ne^bbor- 9 nf .a^ed fgr.a t tt iuwes.' . , " . •„ , ^^ ^ v ' • 'j. :>/&a^'ji'.:.,. : .. .,

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